


Septic Ego Fics

by daisyisawriter91



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Anger Management, Angst, Depression, Dysfunctional Family, Family Issues, Food Issues, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Muteness, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Break Up, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Sensory Overload, Sleep Deprivation, Smoking, Umbrella Academy - Freeform, Zombies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 01:38:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19453690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisyisawriter91/pseuds/daisyisawriter91
Summary: An assortment of one-shots I've written about Jacksepticeye's Egos (NOT ACTUAL RPF, I don't condone RPF)





	1. Oh Raven

Marvin could still feel the room spinning around him, despite his eyes being screwed shut, his arm cast over them. In the arm stretched out across the floor, his mask was clutched loosely in scarred fingers.  
The clothes felt wrong on his body, the fabric against his skin creating only friction. Perhaps explained by the fact they didn’t belong to him.  
Marvin didn’t understand how Chase did it every day. Wore Jack’s clothes, put on an entirely different mask. Marvin wasn’t sure how long he could stand this.  
He needed food. He hadn’t eaten all day. One of his worst habits was not eating when he was in distress. And that seemed to be his constant state, these days.  
He could hear the buzzing of his phone on the desk. All messages from the love of his life. Who he had to leave. He couldn’t risk his angel getting wrapped up in any business with Anti. The thought turned his stomach, the evil bastard’s hands on his angel.  
The door to the recording room opened. Marvin recognized the distinctive stride of Schneeplestein. With him was the scent of food, and the sound of ice clinking against a glass. Marvin moved his arm from his eyes to confirm his suspicions.  
“When was the last time you ate?” Schneep asked, sternness in his voice. Marvin shrugged, not helping the sway to the room. The sweatshirt’s hood underneath his shoulders made it all the more uncomfortable.  
“Dunno.” Marvin answered. His voice was hoarse from recording all day. “Think I had some gummy worms yesterday morning? I could’ve made that up. Think I’ve been having some delusions.”  
Schneep sighed, heavily. He suddenly looked much older than thirty-two. In that, Marvin could relate.  
Schneep bent down beside Marvin’s head and placed a plate of cheese, bread, and vegetables. “Eat it slowly so you don’t shock your stomach.” Schneep instructed.  
Marvin sat up, trying not to fall back to the floor. He tore into one of the slices of bread, chewing carefully. He had to admit, Schneep was right.  
He took a drink of the water, unsurprised when he heard another buzz of his phone. Schneep looked at it, curiously.  
“Do you need to get that?” Schneep asked.  
“I want to. But I can’t.” Marvin said, pushing his bangs away from his forehead. Schneep frowned at him.  
“Why not? Who is it?”  
For a moment, Marvin debated deflecting. Changing the subject. Defending himself. But he had nothing to say.  
“My boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend.” He corrected himself, not allowing his voice to hitch. “I just broke up with him.”  
“I didn’t even know you were seeing anyone. Why’d you break up with him?” Schneep pressed.  
“For his safety. Anti can’t know about him. If Anti got his hands on him, I…I don’t know what I’d do. If he got hurt because of me, it would kill me. I can’t be with him all the time, now, to protect him. And I’m pretty sure I burned that bridge forever. Even when this does blow over, I doubt he’ll take me back.” Marvin rambled, hanging his head in his hands. His hair spilled out between his fingers. He took a bite of a carrot, wincing at the crunch. Sounds were a bit too loud.  
“I am sorry, my friend.” Schneep said, for once tabling his biting remarks. If Marvin wasn’t so miserable already, he would be shocked.  
Marvin sighed again. “Shit’s fucked, Doc.”  
“You can say that again.” Schneep agreed, ruefully. A moment of silence passed between them.  
“Any word on Jack?” Marvin finally asked.  
“Has there ever been?” Schneep replied.  
“Of course. Never been a bearer of good news, have you?”  
“Not in a long time.”  
Marvin leaned his head against Jack’s desk with a sigh. The ache of never sleeping beside his angel again, the grief over his brothers, all that would be eased with Anti’s head on a pike. But at this rate, it didn’t seem to be happening.


	2. You, You, You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JJ got himself hurt. He feels awful guilty about that...

Jameson would gladly admit, he’d made a rather sizable error. Getting himself shot was bad enough. Collapsing beside Mike because of the wound was worse. But having to get hospitalized? That was the biggest mistake.  
Jameson’s last known medical records were from the year 1926. When facing modern hospitalization, this was a _massive problem._  
Mike managed to fake just enough to get Jameson suitably healed before smuggling him out in the dead of night.  
They were holed up in one of Mike’s safe houses. He had them in case his business was found out, and thought a suitable use of one was sheltering a convalescing Jameson.  
It would nearly be time for Jameson to leave. Or at least, nearly time for him to force it, as it would likely be another week before he was considered properly healed. Mike was already doing so much for Jameson, Jameson didn’t want to overstay his welcome.  
His ribs were near constantly in pain. Though the pain had eased, it was still ever present. The bullet had done a number on his abdomen. But he persevered, attempting to get dressed.  
He had to admit, he missed his own clothes. He loved Mike to bits, but his pajamas were a bit too small on Jameson.  
Jameson decided to forgo the waistcoat. Though it was far more proper, it would put too much strain on his ribs. It was already going to be difficult leaving.  
Jameson settled for a brief moment on the couch he’d spent most of his days as of late. He breathed through the fresh wave of pain, considering taking one of Mike’s painkillers to get him through.  
His plan of discretely leaving was thwarted when Mike walked in the door, holding a bag of groceries. Snow dusted his vibrant blue hair and dark coat, giving a near ethereal shine to him in the low cabin lighting.  
“Hey, bluebell, I picked us up some stuff for dinner, I think I’m gonna try an old family recipe.” He greeted, setting the bag on the kitchen island, finally looking at Jameson. “Why are you dressed?”  
Of course he noticed immediately. It was _Mike. The man had trained himself to notice when something was off, if only just for his business, but likely for more.  
Jameson sighed inaudibly. “I’m a burden on you. I can’t possibly comprehend why you’ve gone to such lengths for me, but I’m forever in your debt. I’m done being your burden.”  
Mike shed his coat, walking over to the couch and settling beside Jameson.  
“Jem, baby, when are you gonna get it?” Mike asked, gently. “It’s just you. Nobody else in this entire fucking world is worth a damn to me. There’s no one else I’d stick my neck out for without a second thought, no one else I even care about enough to help.” Mike moved closer, shifting his weight. “I’m a selfish bastard, I only care about me, and you’re a part of me.”  
He cupped Jameson’s face and pulled him close to his own. “So no more of that, alright? Put your damn guilt to bed. Cuz babydoll, it’s just you. You, you, you, all the way down my list of people to give a shit about.”  
Mike pulled Jameson into a kiss. His lips tasted of hot chocolate and mint, his breath hot. Kisses never felt like anything but home with Mike.  
Mike shifted, knees resting behind Jameson’s hips. He was ever so careful to avoid Jameson’s wound, which didn’t go unnoticed.  
Mike broke the kiss with a smile. His face was already flushed, perhaps from the cold, perhaps from the kiss, maybe both.  
“Believe me, now?” Mike asked, barely above a whisper. Jameson nodded, too in awe to tap out Morse. “Good.”  
Mike stood up, running a hand through his hair. “Go back and change. You still got some healing to do.” He ordered.  
Jameson matched him, slower, holding his side. “Thank you.” Jameson signed, trying to pour as much sincerity as he could into the gesture.  
“Believe me, bluebell, it’s my pleasure.” Mike replied. It was one of his rare moments of complete seriousness.  
As Jameson went to get changed, Mike’s chant of _you, you, you__ rung in his head. He couldn’t begin to comprehend how lucky he was with Mike.


	3. Damn That Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the 1920s, Mike reflects on his relationship with Jameson Jackson

Michael “Mad Mike” Regozzi was not a man for love. Never fancied himself to be a man that could love. He could have sex all day, every day, and be perfectly fine. But love was something that never really crossed his mind as a possibility.  
Until he happened to be working the tracks one night. Mike still looked back fondly on that night, even though it had been well over a year prior.  
Mike had been lighting up a ciggy, illuminating the tunnel with his lighter held against his palm. He leaned against the bricks, back curving to the arch of the tunnel.  
Down the tunnel, Mike could see workers doing maintenance on the track. Only three, from what he could see. They were laughing, talking boisterously. Except one.  
One was silent. Occasionally, there would be a long stretch of silence before the other two started laughing, harder than before.  
The silent one had turned, laying his eyes on Mike. Mike could see their startlingly blue shade a mile away, and knew he had to speak with this man.  
The man beat him to it, coming to stand beside him, matching his pose on the wall.  
“Want a cig?” Mike asked, not taking his own out of his mouth. The man nodded. Mike handed one over. The man took it, placing it between his lips. Mike would deny how he watched the process carefully.  
Mike lit the cigarette, the man’s eyes widening as he did so.  
“You’re pretty quiet, ain’t ya?” Mike asked. “You got a name?”  
The man was silent, frowning for a moment. He then began speaking in sign.  
“Jameson. I’m mute. I don’t know if you can understand me.” He signed, worriedly.  
“I understand, Jameson.” Mike took a drag, allowing the smoke to fill his lungs. He blew it out through pursed lips.  
“Oh, good! And, um…what’s your name?” Jameson asked.  
“Michael.” Mike answered. He didn’t know why he didn’t give his nickname. It felt right.  
“Good to meet you, Michael. What brings you down to the tracks?” Jameson continued.  
“Some business. Nothing to worry your pretty little head over.” Mike said. “How often you work down here?”  
“Every night but Sunday.”  
“I’ll be sure to pick up the track shift more often, then.” Mike gave Jameson a wry smile.  
Mike had kept his word. He spent most nights down in the tracks, speaking with Jameson. Often sharing a cigarette, sometimes sharing a meal. Always dangerously, tantalizingly close.  
Mke would have been even more of a liar than he already was if he said he hadn’t thought of Jameson in that way. In fact, it was the only manner in which he thought about Jameson. Touching him, he could picture the graze of his fingers over Jameson’s shoulder, down his collarbone, against his hips. His lips against Jameson’s. He truly believed the mustache would be worth it just to taste him.  
Looking back on it, Mike realized his past self was quite correct. Kissing Jameson was worth anything. Certainly a type of undiscovered drug would be found on his lips. Or maybe Mike was just a sucker.  
Mike lounged on the sofa in his office, cigarette between his fingers, glass of whiskey dangling from his hand.  
Jameson would be over soon, with his wry smile and calloused hands and unbearably kind eyes. And Mike would fall right back in love, like it was a new occurrence every day.  
Love was new. Love was weird. Love was all Mike wanted from Jameson. More than sex, more than favors, it was the most he’d ever wanted anything.  
 _Damn that man,_ Mike thought to himself with a smile. _For being too irresistible._


	4. Much Too Much of a Muchness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are too many sounds around, and JJ can't handle it another second longer. (TW for sensory overload)

If Jameson heard one more sound, he was likely to scream. Everything was too loud, too loud, _too loud._  
His phone wouldn’t stop buzzing on the table, Skippy was having a temper tantrum of barking, and when he’d tried to make himself tea, the kettle whistle made him sob until his eyes hurt. For once, he was almost glad he made no sound. His own voice would have likely hurt his ears.  
He found himself curled up on his couch, hands clamped over his ears, shaking. Changing out of pajamas would have been too much noise. Despite it being four in the afternoon, he refused to get dressed. He hadn’t showered yet, had yet to give their dog his dose of food, everything was falling apart.  
He hadn’t eaten in hours, all the sounds and textures were _wrong_ , everything was wrong. Tears still silently streamed down his face, he just wanted it to _stop_.  
Even through the barrier of his hands, he could still hear the door open. Could still hear Mike’s keys hit the glass bowl on the table, louder than a gunshot. Jameson flinched, curling further in on himself. His legs were beginning to hurt from shaking.  
“Hey, Jem, I’m home.” Mike called out. It was the one sound that didn’t make him want to tear his eardrums out and stomp on them.  
He could hear the scratch of Skippy’s claws against the wooden floor and buried his head further. Mike’s voice was muffled as he used his sweet tone to Skippy.  
“Jem?” Mike called, again. He finally walked into the living room. Jameson wanted to hide even further in the couch to avoid Mike seeing him as he was. “Fuck, Jem, are you okay?” Mike walked over and bent in front of him. “What’s going on, babydoll?”  
Mike brushed the hair gently from Jameson’s eyes, face full of concern. Quickly, Jameson explained the situation, hands barely able to sign from the shaking.  
Wordlessly, Mike stood back to his full height and quietly sped out of the room. He returned with a giant pair of headphones and waited. Jameson nodded, allowing Mike to strap them on over his ears.  
The world faded away, becoming entirely soundless. His limbs loosened ever so slightly as he met Mike’s eyes. Mike smiled, brightly, slipping seamlessly into signing.  
“Is that better?” He asked.  
“Much, thank you. I didn’t even know you had these!” Jameson replied, finding himself smiling right back.  
“I got them a few years ago and kept them in case they came in handy. Looks like they did.” Mike hesitated. “Would touching you be okay?”  
Jameson nodded vigorously. Mike reached out and gently touched his cheeks. Without the sound to go with it, it was exactly what Jameson needed.  
Mike pulled his hands back to ask: “What else do you need? What can I do?”  
“Did you sample any of your product today?” Jameson asked. Mike shook his head. Jameson grabbed his face, gently, in a kiss. He tasted of ice cream with no added ingredient.  
When Mike pulled away, he had a dreamy look in his eyes. “If it’s not too much,” he began. “I can tell you about my day to get your mind off it. I got some good stories from work.”  
As if on cue, Skippy hopped onto the couch, laying his head in Jameson’s lap. He wouldn’t be going anywhere for some time.  
Jameson sat back, burying his hands in Skippy’s fur, ready to listen. As Mike went on about his customers, both legal and otherwise, Jameson smiled.  
The world was silent.  
That was enough.


	5. Drumming Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Schneep finally found a method of venting.

Drumming was a skill Henrik hadn’t anticipated using much after learning it from Jack, mostly learning it to humor his friend. He didn’t have much time for music and what little time he did have, he played piano. Sometimes learning little video game pieces he knew Jack would like so he could play them for him. As if that would help.  
However, some nights, the drums were far more appealing. Tonight was one of those nights.  
He let himself into Jack’s apartment, using his “emergency” key as he had so many nights before. As he did so, he made a b-line for the room Jack used to keep his instruments.  
They were still there, dust kept off them from late night visits none of them discussed. An unspoken agreement they all upheld.  
Henrik had taken gym clothes out of his own place, so as not to raise his roommate’s, Jackie’s, suspicions too high. He didn’t want the hero to worry too much, he already had enough on his plate.  
Henrik settled himself at the drums, just as he had a few times before. He was still getting used to the feel of the seat, the sticks in his hands.  
He stuck in his headphones, putting on a song he could play along to. The most intense song he could find on his phone.  
The first bang of the drum sent a rush through his arm, straight to his head. The following beat made it that much better. Finally, a _release._  
He was a hypocrite. Punching walls, building up aggression, neither were healthy, and yet, he was good at both. Jackie had suggested finding a healthy outlet. This was as healthy as it got.  
He hadn’t seen his children in three years, them being all the way in Germany and wanting nothing to do with him.  
His best friend was in a coma that Henrik had been unable to save him from.  
He could still hear that _goddamned laughter._  
But if he hit the drums a little bit harder, a little bit faster, it would drown away. Give him just one moment of peace. And Henrik was no saint, but he deserved one fucking minute. Didn’t he?  
Henrik rarely allowed himself peace. He liked to blame it on his job, or his trauma, but in the end, it was he, himself, who didn’t allow it. In quiet moments he would force himself to think about everything wrong with his life. And that was his biggest problem.  
All good things had to come to an end. The song concluded, leaving Henrik in silence. Silence was an even worse enemy than himself.  
The silence didn’t last long. He felt his phone buzzing in his loose pocket and pulled it out. He didn’t even have time to say hello to the caller, Chase, before he was cut off. His voice was panicked and watery, and Henrik knew immediately this little excursion had been for nothing.  
 _“Schneep, dude, you gotta get back to the hospital! It’s Jackie, he’s in real bad shape! He needs your help! He’s losing so much blood, I think he’s-”_  
Henrik hung up, already on his way out the door.  
It would happen again, wouldn’t it? He’d fail yet another one of his friends.  
He carried the drumbeat in his head all the way back to the hospital. This time, it didn’t drown out the laughter.


	6. The Septic Boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based off the Umbrella Academy, the brothers Jackson gather for their father's funeral.

Peter was giving himself a night off, finally. It had been ages since he’d actually had a night off, he would treat himself just once. And his idea of treating himself was a black coffee and the greasiest cheeseburgers he could find. That was the true reward.  
Peter was on his third burger of the night, a very concerned waitress eyeing him as he devoured it without hesitation. He would not be judged so harshly, not if he embraced it.  
Keeping enough calories in his system was one hell of a struggle. Peter needed nights like this to refuel. Any calories were better than not enough, at least, that’s what his brother had taught him.  
The diner was harshly lit with white fluorescents, some flickering in and out. A few flies buzzed around, but as long as they didn’t touch Peter’s food, he didn’t mind them. Nor did he mind the mysterious stains on the floor. He asked for grease, not beauty.  
The suspicious waitress, a drunken couple, and himself were the only occupants of the diner that night. Probably with good reason, considering the establishment’s quality.  
The door to the diner opened, harshly, nearly knocking the bell to the floor. Of course. On his night off, too.  
Six men with hats pulled low over their faces stormed into the diner. Peter took another bite of his burger, wanting to savor as much of it as he could before he had to jump in.  
Whenever Peter tried to take even one second for himself, something interfered. Usually robbers, such as the ones before him. And people wondered why he couldn’t hold down relationships.  
Of course, what was clearly the leader of the goons held up a pistol to the waitress, spouted some generic line about money and how she wouldn’t get hurt if she complied. The waitress put up her hands, trembling. And while he felt for her, he did, Peter had heard it all before, it was nothing new.  
Most nights, he would pay attention and empathize more than he should. But he was tired, and these men were amateurs. So all he could do was laugh softly to himself as he took a final chug of his coffee and set down his burger.  
He slid out of the booth, putting on his mask. All but one of the intruders turned to look at him, one still threatening the poor waitress.  
“Did we really have to do this tonight? I’m a nice guy, I really am. I just wanted to eat my burger in peace. But I can’t have one night to myself, can I?” Peter rambled, frustratedly.  
“Get down on the ground!” One of them shouted. He was barely eighteen, from the looks of it. He still had a case of teenage acne.  
“But what if I don’t, though?” Peter taunted. As one, they opened fire. Peter had a quick moment to sigh before he sped out of the way.  
In his haste, he picked up a table and slid it over to them. It pinned two against the wall, leaving four still firing off shots. Peter ran towards them, yanked the gun away from one of them and tossed it at the other three. The momentum knocked the rest of their guns away.  
Peter paused to smile at them, make them think they had a chance. One of them, the youngest looking one, took a clumsy swing at him. He didn’t even need to use his speed to avoid it.  
“Poor form. Go to the gym, son.” He quipped, before throwing a punch of his own, sufficiently knocking him out. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the waitress on her cellphone, calling the police, hopefully.  
He kicked one of the others, a boy in his early twenties, pretending to look fierce, into the wall. He then allowed the remaining one, the ring leader, to take a few swings, backing Peter back up to his table.  
He grabbed the remnants of his burger before knocking out the ring leader with his elbow. Surveying his handiwork, the diner was remarkably intact, and the fight was barely enough to get his heart racing. The drunken couple were still very unaware of what had just transpired. He’d put in a few flourishes for a challenge. Amateurs, the lot of them.  
“Thanks for the food!” He called to the waitress, stuffing the last of his burger in his mouth.  
With that, he strode out of the diner, dusting his hands on his paint-stained jeans, looking around for any backup and finding it lacking. No cavalry, even? Barely a threat to Peter.  
And he was still hungry.

Marvin was the definition of the term “playing with fire”. Well, alright, maybe not _precisely_ what the term meant. More the literal definition of the term. He also played with ice, moss, and dust, but none were quite as fun to say as fire.  
Marvin tied up his hair, looking in the mirror at himself. The burn marks across his eyes proved what he loved to do. They didn’t stop him, but were a mere setback. At least his brother Henry had been able to save his eyesight.  
Marvin smiled at himself. Scars had been a part of him for over fifteen years. People often found them sexy, besides. His boyfriend sure did.  
Marvin walked out of his bathroom and plopped onto his couch. His next job wasn’t for another three hours, he had loads of time. But that meant more time to get bored.  
Marvin was prone to boredom. Often compared to a cat by his boyfriend, if he had nothing to do, he’d get himself in trouble. And as much as he always wanted to argue, the simple fact was, he couldn’t. He had to find something to do.  
Marvin flipped on the TV, hoping for something engaging while he created small orbs of ice, gathered from the kitchen sink, to juggle. He was getting better at one-handed juggling, but he needed more practice.  
Marvin changed the channel from a shitty reality show to the news. Something at a diner had happened, and Marvin wasn’t surprised. Peter probably had something to do with that. But they all had a silent agreement to not talk about it to each other. Or talk to each other at all. While Marvin often found himself missing a few of his brothers, he respected their agreement. It was better that way.  
As soon as the thought entered his head, the story changed to the death of an eccentric millionaire, Elliot Jackson, cryptically known as Dark. Marvin’s father.  
Well. That was certainly a reason to get the gang back together. More importantly, it would give Marvin something to do.  
Marvin scribbled a quick note to his boyfriend, grabbed his mask and his coat, and leapt out the window. He was never that good at exits.  
He cushioned himself on a blanket of snow, made from the juggled ice spheres, before letting it melt and walking away.

The last thing Henrik wanted was to be associated with the Jackson name. So, when a slight head injury permanently altered his accent, he saw it as an opportunity. Henry Jackson, the young superhero prodigy, became Henrik von Schneeplestein, renowned surgeon. Wearing a surgical mask most of the time certainly had its perks.  
Very rarely was he recognized, nowadays. Most of the world had forgotten about him and his family to begin with. The mask helped, as well as the lab coat. It detracted from what the world used to see.  
Henrik was looking over a patient’s chart, brows furrowed in concentration, while the rest of the hospital moved behind him.  
Paralyzed…would never walk again. Only seventeen. Henrik had spent time with this patient, knew the kid well. She had dreams of competing in snowboarding at the Olympics, seeing the name Jessie Redford up in bright lights as she won the gold. She would be crushed once she got this news.  
Henrik shut the metal cover of the chart with a sharp snap. It had been a while. He would risk it. For such a sweet kid, who had her whole life ahead of her. He would take that risk.  
Henrik strode into the room where Jessie was staying to find her tapping away at her phone. She set it down when she saw him and smiled, brightly. They’d formed quite a rapport, the two of them.  
“Hey, Dr. Schneep! What’s up?” She greeted, warmly. Henrik smiled at her and sat beside her bed.  
“Hello, Jessie. I want to tell you something.” Henrik said, trying to make himself look as gentle as possible. Jessie wasn’t used to this, as Henrik’s bedside manner left something to be desired. She’d always liked it, though.  
“What’s that?” Jessie asked, suspiciously. She noticed his demeanor, of course she did.  
“I can get you out of here tomorrow. I’m…special, in a way. But you must promise me you will tell no one.” Henrik proposed. Jessie glared at him.  
“Is this one of those weird rapey mind tricks?” Jessie questioned. Henrik suddenly realized the words out of his mouth.  
“No! No, not at all!” Henrik rushed out. “Here. Let me demonstrate.” Henrik took a deep breath and held out his hand. He bent back his middle finger, and heard a sickening _snap_.  
Jessie gasped. “Dr. Schneep, what the fuck?!” She screeched. Henrik gritted his teeth.  
“Is okay, is okay, watch!” He insisted. He covered his broken finger with his other hand and willed it to work. Willed the tissue to fix itself, the bone to mend. When he removed his free hand, he wiggled all of his fingers to demonstrate to Jessie. “See? Not creepy.”  
Jessie adjusted herself in bed, uncomfortable. But amazed, all the same. “No, no, that’s creepy. Just really fucking cool, too.” She breathed, laughing, nervously. “You’re saying you can do that to my legs?”  
“Yes. Whatever I can’t heal now will mend itself overnight and you’ll be out by this time tomorrow.” Henrik explained.  
“Why don’t you do this with all the patients?” She asked, skeptically.  
“Because if I do it too often, people will start looking for me, and I won’t be able to treat anyone. I put myself honestly through medical school so I could treat patients the normal way. Only in extreme cases do I use my powers so I do not get found out. One or two miracles every once in a while go unnoticed, as long as I act the part. A shocked doctor who cannot explain what happened.” Henrik ended his sentence with a small wink. “So you must promise me you will not tell a soul.”  
“I promise. Swear on my mom’s life.” Jessie held up her hand as she said so. Henrik chuckled, ruffling her hair.  
“You are a good kid. I believe you.” Henrik said. He placed one hand on each leg and closed his eyes, concentrating. He _forced_ the nerves to work again, sending small pulses through her legs to get them to reanimate.  
It took three minutes by his count for the nerves to heal sufficiently. Not bad, but not the best he’d ever done.  
When the process was over, Henrik sat back in his chair and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Don’t put your weight on them until tomorrow, they are still healing. Sleep as much as you can until that time, sleep is your best friend when it comes to the healing of the body. Eat properly, as well, and think positive thoughts. Mind over matter is quite true in many cases.” Henrik instructed.  
Jessie had tears welling in her eyes. “Thank you, Dr. Schneep. I don’t…I don’t know how to repay you.” Her voice was quivering.  
“Go to the Olympics. That will be payment enough.” Henrik replied. Jessie surged forward and wrapped him in a hug, which he slowly returned. He’d never been the best at physical affection, but he made do when it called for it.  
After Jessie let go of him, Henrik stood with another kind smile. “Get some rest. The good doctor’s orders.” He insisted, adding in a little joke they liked to tell.  
“Thanks, doc.” She replied.  
Henrik peeked into the room after he left, and sure enough, she was on her side, eyes closed. She really was a good kid.  
Henrik went back to the nurse’s station, only to find a visitor awaiting him. Henrik’s blood went cold at the sight of him.  
Marvin wore his signature cat mask over his eyes, a heavy black coat unbuttoned to show off a too tight t-shirt and low-rise skinny jeans. His hair was bound in a bun, and he wore a smile to match the ensemble.  
“Hey, brother dearest. Long time no see.” Marvin greeted. Henrik sighed.  
“Who exactly died?”

Anti was never given a proper name. Much as he had wanted one, it simply wasn’t meant to be. His dad had been forbidden from giving out any more names when he reached him. So, Anti took on his name as it was.  
He was the antithesis of everything Elliot Jackson wanted. The opposite message that his organization sent. Anti was chaos, he was disorder, he was violence and blood without any real meaning. And that was exactly how he wanted to be seen. Chaos incarnate.  
Anti propped his feet up on his monitor covered desk, eating chips with one hand, typing on his phone with the other. To the outside observer, he was just a normal man relaxing. Exactly how he wanted to look while hacking into the Pentagon. Surprisingly easy. Easier than it should have been. Or maybe that was just him.  
He didn’t have anything he wanted to accomplish, exactly. They hadn’t pissed him off, recently. An improvement from the last time.  
“Did you miss me?” He whispered into his phone, smile growing on his face, knowing they were absolutely _panicking._  
Perhaps he should find better stress relief activities than hacking into the Pentagon. But yoga just wasn’t for him. Maybe he should try a zen garden.  
Anti used his feet to push himself away from his desk, rolling to what was formally known as his kitchen, but barely even had an oven. He set his chips up on the counter, wiping his hand on his jeans.  
Anti rolled himself back to his desk, numbers and letters rolling in front of his eyes. Simpler than a puzzle cube to him.  
Just as he tied off another job, there was a knock at his door. Anti growled, lowly, and stood from his chair, grabbing a knife from his kitchen as he passed.  
Anti yanked open the door. Standing on his doorstep were two of his brothers, if they could be called that. Henry looked incredibly displeased to be there, but Marvin looked incredibly pleased.  
“Don’t make me kill you.” Anti warned.  
“We are not here to start a fight, Anti. We’re here to tell you that our father has passed.” Henry spoke up, using a ridiculous German accent.  
“I didn’t know I needed to throw a party today! Thank you for the good news, I needed that today, really.” Anti said, trying to shut the door on them. Marvin blocked it, of course he did.  
“You’re going to the funeral.” Marvin said, no room for arguments. Anti liked making that room.  
“I’m really not. I’ll send dear old robo dad a fruit basket.” Anti slammed the door shut. He didn’t get very far before Marvin forced it open and dragged him out of the apartment, leaving his phone behind.  
“Fuck you!” Anti screeched.  
“Love you, too.” Marvin chirped while Henry simply watched, unimpressed. Just like old times.

Growing up, Chase thought he was the ordinary one. Nothing really notable happened around him, he couldn’t do wonderful things like his brothers. Simply put, he existed all through his childhood, but he didn’t live it.  
Until he was sixteen. He got run over by an eighteen-wheeler and stood up like nothing happened. His own blood stained the road, but he was unharmed. Not a single bone broken, not a single scrape showing on his skin.  
When he got home, he played around a bit. Intentionally got in the way of Marvin’s magic, made Anti angry, even asked to be punched by Peter. But none of those injuries lasted for more than a minute, and just as before, he stood back up.  
He had to prove it to his extraordinary brothers. He had to prove he was like them, _worthy_ of being their brother. So he’d taken them up to the roof of their house and jumped off. He remembered Robbie screaming.  
But he didn’t even feel the impact. He shook off a little bit of bleariness, stood up, and ran back up to the roof.  
They didn’t know how to react. But their dad did. Made him part of the team, taking his rightful spot as number five.  
Of course, when they disbanded, Chase had to keep using his ability. But in ways he could play off as something else, ways that he could use a bit of deception and easily cover up. A stunt show didn’t seem like the obvious choice. Yet it worked perfectly.  
People watched stunt shows for amazing feats of human athleticism. Most people expected a bit of drama, and, of course, a bit of editing. While Chase was fairly athletic, even he couldn’t survive most of the things he did. And yet, he did.  
Chase took a clearing deep breath and remembered where he was. Behind the wheel of a car that hadn’t been approved for the public. He wasn’t even remotely scared. He knew he could walk away for it.  
Before he could start it up, he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. He forgot to take it out before he got in the car.  
Regardless, he looked at his phone. Four messages from a number not on his contacts.  
 _Hey couldn’t find you_  
Wanted to for dramatic effect  
This’ll work  
Dad’s dead  
Love, Marv  
As Chase looked at the messages, utterly frozen, another one followed it up. A picture of Marvin, Henry, and Anti together. Marvin posed with his tongue out, Anti was being dragged by his collar, and Henry looked displeased.  
Chase locked his phone and rolled down the window. One of the show’s assistants took his phone from him and walked away.  
Chase started up the engine, sparing only a glance to the tattoo on his arm. He really needed this.

Finally, after so long, Jameson was on his way home. His powers were finally obeying him, an almost cruel joke at this point. But he didn’t care. He just wanted to go home.

People would often comment that Robbie wanted for nothing. Always grateful for what he got, but asked for none of it. After much trial and error, he got to this point.  
Robbie made wishes. Or at least, he used to make wishes. Because they always came true. And usually, he wanted to take them back.  
When Robbie absentmindedly wished the girl he liked would like him back in 2nd grade, she liked him too much and ended up getting angry and violent. He wished she didn’t like him at all, and everything settled down, at least, for everyone else. Of course, the girl he liked ended up hating his guts, but she didn’t attack anyone else.  
Throughout his life, Robbie had to be careful if and when he wanted things. He learned to be happy with what he had so he didn’t throw off the universe anymore. So he didn’t get anybody else hurt.  
The last thing he wished was not to die. He’d interfered during a robbery, his old training kicking in. No one else was harmed, but he was shot three times in the chest. There was no saving him, unless he wished. And wishing got him here.  
A living death. Irreversible, even by another wish. He was a zombie, but at least he couldn’t infect people to get them more hurt.  
It changed his life-er, death-as he knew it. Robbie became a recluse, working from home. He hired a caretaker, an odd fellow named Mike, who would keep his mouth shut to help him in tasks he couldn’t perform anymore.  
He hadn’t tasted anything in years. Hadn’t taken a proper breath. What his day to day life looked like was putting his bad eye back into his socket and not wishing for anything.  
But he made a mistake. While passing the time, no longer able to sleep, he was thinking to himself about life, about his childhood, his brothers. And he wished for the first time since his accident, to see his brothers all together one more time.  
The next morning, when he got the news of his father’s death, he wasn’t even surprised. He’d caused this.  
Robbie was silent on the drive to his old family home, as Mike chirped away about anything and everything.  
It was all Robbie’s fault.


	7. The Many Names of Jameson Jackson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mike likes giving people nicknames. Especially JJ.

_Dearie_  
It all started with ‘dearie’.   
Mike had a penchant for nicknaming people, particularly those he had a fondness for. When Jameson befriended him, it was only a matter of time before the nicknames began rolling out.  
Sure enough, when Mike visited the train tracks with lunch he decided to split with Jameson, the nickname slipped out.  
As Jameson took a bite of the lunch Mike had so generously shared, it immediately smeared on his cheek. It was rare for him to share meals with anyone but his sister, he tended to forget his manners.  
Mike simply smiled at him. “You’re lucky you’re cute, dearie. May I?”   
Jameson, too stunned by the compliment and the nickname, simply nodded. Mike leaned over and kissed his cheek, presumably where the sauce had smeared.  
Jameson felt his brain split in two. Surely, that was what it had to be. Nothing else could cause his higher functions to simply cease, right?  
Mike pulled away, his smile turned into a cheeky grin. “Got it.” He said, licking his lips.  
In a fit of courage, Jameson shook his head, putting down the food to sign. “You missed a spot.”  
Mike raised a brow, confused. “Did I?” He asked, truly puzzled for the first time since Jameson had met him.  
Jameson grabbed Mike’s face and pulled him into a kiss. Before he had the chance to regret his action and pull away, profusely apologizing, Mike’s hand twisted in his shirt and pulled him closer.

 _Jim_  
Previously, Jameson’s only nicknames had been “JJ” and “Jamie”. There were many things one could do with his name, but no one had really wanted to go beyond the main two.  
Until Mike.  
Mike could take anything and make a nickname of it. Jameson’s name was not immune to this, particularly after Jameson had so brazenly confessed his feelings, which Mike, thankfully, returned.  
Jameson hesitated outside of Mike’s office. He’d never seen the office before, he wasn’t certain what to expect. But Mike had asked him there. Mike wanted him to see the inside of his office.  
Taking a deep breath, he knocked on the door three times.  
“Come in.” Mike’s voice was different. Cold, calculated, none of the kindness Jameson had come to recognize.  
Jameson didn’t let it dissuade him. He opened the door, greeting Mike with a smile.  
Mike was hunched over his large mahogany desk, writing furiously in a ledger of sorts. His shoulders were tense, his brow drawn, dark hair falling over his forehead.  
Jameson took this brief moment to survey the office.   
The walls were mostly covered in bookshelves, similar ledgers, along with medicinal textbooks and fairytales. Hanging on the wall was a gun Jameson recognized from the war. He’d used something similar.   
Mike looked up, shoulders immediately loosening, a smile growing on his face.  
“Jem!” Mike rejoiced. Jameson raised an eyebrow, shutting the door behind him. “I’m so happy to see you.” He even looked sincere.  
He strode over to Jameson, clasping his hands behind Jameson’s neck. Jameson would never tire of Mike kissing him. A fresh new sensation, every time.  
When Mike pulled away, he stole Jameson’s breath. Jameson managed to raise his hands enough for Mike to see them.  
“Jem?” He questioned, the nickname still new to him.  
“I’m trying it out! Ya like it?” Mike asked, an edge of worry in his tone. Jameson nodded, emphatically.  
“I love it.” He assured. Mike simply smiled and kissed him again.

 _Sexy_  
Jameson had truly not expected the next nickname he received. “Jem” and “Dearie” stuck, and he’d grown quite fond of them.  
Jameson was expecting him over at any moment. His sister had plans for the night, leaving the perfect time for Mike to have dinner. At their house. Alone. Jameson got flustered just thinking about it.  
He straightened the books on the shelves for the seventh time in the past hour. He began counting after the third time, realizing it was a bit of a problem. He couldn’t control the shaking of his hands.  
Mike had told Jameson about his illegal dealings, how it gave him a certain advantage, monetarily speaking. Jameson and his sister had to work two jobs each just to keep their apartment, which was already in shambles. He felt he was allowed a bit of insecurity.  
Interrupting what was about to be his eighth shelf-straightening was a knock at the door. Mike. A bit earlier than expected.  
Jameson rushed to the door, only taking a moment to realize he’d quite forgotten to dress nicely. Disheveled, unbuttoned shirt, suspenders missing, hair ruffled. He looked a mess. He hoped Mike wouldn’t mind.  
Jameson opened the door to show it was, indeed, Mike. He held a bottle of red wine in his hands, he was dressed neatly, and he greeted Jameson with a smile before it fell, eyes going wide.  
“I’m sorry, I forgot to make myself look presentable.” Jameson quickly apologized.  
“I find that hard to believe, sexy.” Mike raised a playful brow, a quirk to his lips. Jameson floundered, pausing in the middle of his next movement, unsure how to speak. “Sure ya didn’t doll yourself up to look as keen as possible?”  
“I thought I looked...terrible.” Jameson finally managed.  
“Even the snootiest of old women would agree with me. Ya look like sex on legs, Jem.” Mike continued, smile growing on his face.  
Jameson swallowed the lump in his throat and grabbed Mike’s coat, pulling him from the hallway and into a kiss.  
The wine was abandoned on the table. Dinner could wait. 

_Bluebell_  
Jameson’s favorite nickname Mike had given him was “Bluebell”. The utter reverence with which he said it never failed to make butterflies erupt in Jameson’s stomach.  
Jameson awoke to find the bed empty, and wondered for a moment if the previous night was simply a pleasant dream. His senses had so blissfully been filled with Mike, surely nothing that wonderful could be real.  
However, putting these doubts to rest, Mike walked into the room, still not clad in a shirt, showing off marks that Jameson, himself, had made. He blushed whenever he remembered it.  
Mike crawled back under the covers, throwing an arm over Jameson. He smiled when their eyes met, sleep still clinging to him like a fog.  
“Mornin’, bluebell.” He purred, placing a kiss to Jameson’s forehead. Bluebell.  
The name rung around in Jameson’s head like the reverb of a church bell. Mike had compared him to a flower. From what Jameson had been told, Mike’s favorites.  
Mike chuckled at what must have been Jameson’s dumbfounded expression, using his free hand to brush the stray hair away from Jameson’s face.  
“I think I like that one. My beautiful bluebell.” Mike said. “That okay with you?”  
Jameson nodded, leaning into his touch. Mike laughed again, voice hoarse and deep. Mike ran his fingers down Jameson’s jaw, sending tingles down Jameson’s spine.  
Mike didn’t fight for a single moment when he was drawn into a kiss. Outside, snow began to fall.

 _Babydoll_  
Jameson knew he had to start getting used to Mike’s nicknames. But they continued to make his heart flutter, and likely would for a long time.  
Jameson stood in front of the mirror, tying his bow-tie just so. He wanted to look presentable, though that had never mattered to Mike before.   
The arrival of May meant Mike’s birthday. Something Jameson had been looking forward to the entirety of winter. He’d been saving away a small portion of his earnings every week just for this purpose.   
Perhaps it was silly, but Jameson had always adored birthdays. Especially those of the ones he cared for. Mike was particularly high on that list.  
Once more, Jameson examined the gift. He couldn’t deny his nerves over the gesture. If they were any other two people, perhaps it would have a more permanent affect.   
A ring. Not a particularly expensive one, in fact, one of the cheapest that Jameson could find. He hoped the sentiment of it, alone, would cover up the low cost.  
Were either of them a woman, it would mean more. They could truly be married. But at the very least, they could convince themselves they were.  
Jameson shoved the ring in his pocket when he heard the phone begin to ring. He only had it for his sister, but the only person who would be calling at this hour would be Mike.  
Sure enough, when Jameson answered, it was Mike’s voice on the other end.  
“Hey, Jem, a little something came up I gotta deal with right quick. Can we push our deal back ‘bout quarter of an hour?” Mike asked, sounding truly apologetic.  
Jameson knocked on the desk twice, which meant ‘yes’.   
“You’re the best, babydoll. Love ya.” Mike hung up, leaving Jameson dumbfounded. Butterflies, one more time.  
He didn’t even fully comprehend how the air in the room seemed to shift until it was too late. The room disappeared around him, and suddenly, he was falling.

 _Jewel_  
Jameson was eternally grateful for the people who’d taken him in as one of their own, he truly was. But for today, he couldn’t be around them. He didn’t want to be around anyone.  
It would have been Jameson’s and Mike’s anniversary. And since the person Jameson wanted to spend the day with was...gone, he wanted to spend it alone. He figured, after so long, he was allowed one pity party.  
Jameson found himself wandering Brighton, the city he now called home. It was gorgeous, but he couldn’t deny, he missed New York. At least, New York as it was when he called it home.  
As he walked, he saw couples happily holding hands, casually kissing in the street. Some of them being decidedly not straight. It made Jameson miss Mike all the more.  
Jameson made his way through town until he stumbled across an ice cream parlor. An unassuming place with perhaps an odd name. “The Mad House”. Jameson had heard stranger names. And what pity party was complete without sugar?  
Jameson walked inside and sat himself. The parlor was empty, save for a couple towards the back splitting a milkshake. Great. Yet more people in love.   
It didn’t even occur to Jameson to order, and yet, a bowl of green ice cream was placed before him.  
“It’s pistachio, right?”   
There was no way. It was absolutely not possible. And yet, when Jameson looked up, it was into the beautiful eyes he knew so well. Mike.  
Mike smiled down at him. He wore an outfit typical of someone working in an ice cream parlor, but it was the same man Jameson loved all those years ago.  
“Hey, jewel.” Mike greeted, warmly. Jameson pulled him down into a kiss.  
He didn’t care if it was impossible. He was with Mike. That was enough.


End file.
